


cut out all the ropes

by somehowunbroken



Series: sleep tight [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Magic, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: Jo doesn't know what's going on with the Bolts and their magic when he first arrives in Tampa. Figuring it out doesn't exactly make him sleep any easier, but at least he's got Nate in his corner.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is part of the "sleep tight" universe; i really don't know at this point if it works as a stand-alone or not. i'm looking at the big picture of the whole 'verse and i'm gonna say no, but LOUD SHRUG EMOJI, tbh.
> 
> thanks to S. and J. for their alpha reading; special thanks to J. for the comment "i'm having _a lot of emotions_ right now and it is _your fault_." this is blame i gladly accept. extra thanks to ari for being the best beta.  <3
> 
> title is from "skinny love." please imagine the birdy version for maximum effect.

Magic is… different, in Québéc.

It's different everywhere, Jo supposes. He's played with enough people from enough places around the world to know that by now, but sometimes it still surprises him, how one province in Canada does magic so differently from seemingly the rest of North America.

It's not that Jo casts weirdly or breaks strangely; it's more that he can do both, and that's bizarre once you get out of the heart of Québéc. The closer you draw to the province lines, the more people start to delineate between caster and breaker; once he steps over the border, he's suddenly an outcast for more than just his accent.

Jo isn't used to it, is the thing. He's played all of his hockey in Québéc, or close enough to it, in a protected enough environment that it wasn't something he had to worry about. Teams in the Q sometimes get mocked for their warding, but it's as strong as it is for a lot of reasons, and Jo always felt safe with the Mooseheads.

It changes in Tampa. Everything changes in Tampa.

"Hey, Drouin, good to meet you," Stamkos says, smiling. He's a generally friendly guy, Jo can tell; he radiates a sense of calm and trustworthiness. He'll make a great captain, whenever St. Louis retires or moves on. There's not a drop of magic in him that Jo can see. He has no idea if that's a benefit or a drawback here, not yet.

Jo smiles and glad-hands his way through rookie camp and training camp and every second he gets to play in Tampa. He's good enough to stay up; he can already see the warp and weft of the team, the way they're moving their magic around to make a space for him. It's weird-looking magic to be sure, but he's confident about his place once the season starts nonetheless.

Which is why it's such a shock to get sent back to Halifax.

"I don't understand," he says, frustrated. He's throwing everything he'd brought to Tampa into his bag, not bothering with things like sorting or folding.

"Jo, English," Nate says patiently. He's eating something on the other end of their Skype call, but he sets the bowl down and peers closely at the screen. He's making that face that means he can't figure out how to say what's on his mind.

"Spit it out," Jo says, balling his hands up in a rumpled game-day shirt. The fabric twists comfortingly beneath his fingers, and he picks at the threads with his magic just so he can soothe them back down. He's gotten good at doing it so he can still wear the shirts after.

"Is this a Québéc thing?" Nate asks finally. "Like, look, I don't want to say it's about your magic, but you know it kinda freaks people out."

"Which is stupid," Jo says, tossing the shirt into his bag and yanking open the drawer in the bedside table. "Just because you people decide to only develop half of your magic—"

"Jo," Nate cuts in. "Hey. Deep breath, babe."

Jo stops what he's doing and stares at Nate. "What?"

"You're," Nate says, gesturing at the camera and, Jo assumes, to him. "Throwing off sparks."

Sure enough, when Jo looks down, there are white-hot sparks racing across his skin. He takes a deep breath and opens his hand, pulling at his magic until it gathers in his palm, then closing his fist. When he opens it again, there's no trace of magic, and he feels a little calmer for it. "Thanks," he says, trying not to sound too put out.

"You're welcome," Nate says, smiling at him. It fades after a moment. "It sounded like you were gonna get a shot at it."

"I was," Jo says, sitting on the bed. "I swear I was. The magic here…"

"Talk to your agent," Nate suggests after a moment. "See if he can do anything."

Jo shakes his head firmly. "They've already made their choice, Nate. If I complain about it, all it's going to get me is a reputation."

"But if it's something to do with your magic," he starts.

"Then complaining about it will get me a reputation _and_ make the League's whole attitude worse." Jo shakes his head, suddenly more tired than angry. "I don't need Don Cherry calling me out on Coach's Corner. And it's not like I'm the only guy to be sent back down."

Almost everyone goes back, is the thing. It's not a slight or an insult; when you're drafted at eighteen, you've still got a lot of growing to do, a lot of things to learn about the game. Only the very, very best get to skip extra time in juniors. Only people like Nate, who is so amazing that nobody believes he doesn't charm his skates. Jo's good; he's actually great. He's not Nate, though, and he wouldn't be upset about being sent back if he didn't feel that there was something _wrong_ in how it's happening.

"I'll go back," he says. "I'll play, and they'll see. They have to."

"They will," Nate says comfortingly. "You're too good, Jo. They'll regret it the second they send you back there."

Jo smiles a little. "Thanks, Nathan."

"You're welcome, Jonathan," Nate says, teasing, but he's smiling right back at Jo.

-0-

Jo fully intends to go back to Halifax and make the Bolts regret even thinking about sending him back to juniors. He skates as hard and as fast as he can in practices; he shoots and dekes and dangles his way through everyone else there and doesn't let himself notice how his magic is bending back, pulling itself in, sinking into the larger pool of the Mooseheads.

He's completely unprepared when he hurts himself.

"Stupid," he gasps as Hardie helps him off the ice. There's something wrong; it's a muscle pull, maybe, if he's lucky. The trainers meet him at the bench, and from there it's carefully stripping out of his practice gear, making his way to the trainers' room, and gritting his teeth as they poke and prod at him.

"You strained your groin," Stu finally says, sighing. He's Jo's favorite person on the training staff, mostly because something about Stu reminds him of his grandfather. "It'll be a few weeks until we want you skating, Jo. Maybe a month until you're playing."

"I want," Jo starts.

"A second opinion, yeah, I know," Stu says, smiling. "I already called Mrs. Mac. She's gonna pick you up and take you to the guy in town."

Jo starts a little. He's got a billet family here in Halifax; sure, he's close to Nate's family, but they're definitely not the ones responsible for him this year. "Uh," he tries.

Stu levels him with a look. "You can argue with her when she gets here," he says. _I'm sure as hell not going to_ , he doesn't add, and Jo can definitely understand why he wouldn't want to.

Mrs. MacKinnon arrives about ten minutes after Jo manages his way through a shower and getting himself dressed. It's kind of miserable; it's not like he thought groin injuries would be any kind of fun, but there's no way he can move without it pulling. He can't imagine trying to skate right now.

"Oh, Jonathan," she says, worried mom frown firmly in place. "Stu said you pulled something?"

"I'm okay," he says immediately. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he hurries to correct himself. "Nothing's broken. I just wanted to see Dr. Matin, too."

"Okay," she allows. "Well, let's get you going. The sooner you see him, the sooner we can get a prescription for whatever's ailing you."

Mrs. MacKinnon graciously doesn't comment on how he hobbles out to the car, and she waits by the car door so she can close it for him after he manages to get himself in. It's not until they're safely on the highway that Jo figures he'd better just ask.

"Not that I don't appreciate this," he starts carefully.

"Suzanne and I have an agreement," Mrs. MacKinnon says. "She's your billet mom, and I'm not stepping on her toes, but you're my son, Jo. If it's serious, if it could be, she calls me."

Jo has to blink a few times and take a deep breath. His own parents had taken him coming out neutrally, if he's being honest with himself; the MacKinnons, on the other hand, had welcomed him in with open arms when Nate told them he and Jo were together. They'd already been his family by that point, but their complete acceptance had done more for Jo than he really knows how to say.

"Thank you," he manages.

Mrs. MacKinnon reaches over to ruffle his hair. "Of course."

Dr. Matin is as small as Jo remembers, and his sigh is just as put-upon as ever. "What have you done to yourself this time?" he grouses.

Jo feels instantly at ease; Dr. Matin is, in Nate's words, "a curmudgeon," but he's good at what he does. He's also got a bit of a soft spot where Jo is concerned, because the first time Jo had visited Jo had asked about a photo of two small girls hanging on the wall, and they'd talked the entire visit in French about his twin granddaughters. "They're saying I strained my groin," he says as he gingerly lifts himself onto the table. "I'm pretty sure they're right, but you're the professional."

"I certainly am," Dr. Matin huffs. He glances at Mrs. MacKinnon. "Is Maman staying?"

"I'll wait in the reception area," she says. "Yell for me if you need me, okay?"

"Okay," Jo says, smiling as she waves and leaves.

Dr. Matin sighs and gestures to the table. "You know the drill."

It takes him a little while, but eventually Jo manages to lay back on the exam table. Dr. Matin's hands glow a comforting shade of orange as he hovers them above Jo's body, pushing and pulling with his magic to do his examination. He's as thorough as ever, which is comforting; even though Jo's sure there's nothing wrong with his shoulders, he doesn't say anything when that's where Dr. Matin starts.

"Well," Dr. Matin says when he's finished, down by Jo's ankle. "I can tell you two things for sure. One, yes, you have managed to strain your groin, and it's going to feel a lot worse tomorrow than it does today."

Jo grimaces. He'd known that, but it doesn't make the prospect any more appealing.

"And two," he goes on. "Two, we might want to call Maman back in here, but you're an adult now, so you can make that decision."

It makes Jo try to sit up, which makes him suck in a breath and lay as still as possible until the pain recedes a little. "Am I sick?" he asks when he can manage it.

"No," Dr. Matin says. "There's something with your magic, though."

"My," Jo says, trailing off. He holds his hands out and watches as his magic springs up; it's the same bright sparks he's had since he was little, and there's nothing wrong that he can tell. "Could you get her? Please?"

Dr. Matin nods. "You sit up," he instructs, then disappears out the door.

Mrs. MacKinnon doesn't exactly come running into the room, but it's probably only because there's a sharp turn at the end of the hallway that would have made her slow down. "Jo?"

"I don't know," he says. It's automatic to reach out, and she takes his hand and squeezes it. "Something about my magic?"

"You were drafted," Dr. Matin says. "And you spent some time with your new team, correct?"

Jo blinks. This isn't where he was expecting this conversation to go. "Yes?"

"There's an… addition, and it might just be team warding," Dr. Matin says, reaching out again. "I'm not a specialist; I can't tell you what it is. But there is something in your magic that wasn't there the last time I saw you, and that's the only real difference. Groin aside, of course."

Mrs. MacKinnon squeezes Jo's hand again when he doesn't say anything. "Is there a specialist around here we could see? Someone you recommend?"

"Of course, of course," Dr. Matin says.

Jo tunes them out as they talk. He closes his eyes and breathes, tugging his hand away from Mrs. MacKinnon's as he goes through the simplest meditations he'd learned as a child, the easiest way to look inside and see the magic that was the core of your being. He hasn't done it in a while; most people don't, but you're supposed to every once in awhile, just to check up on yourself.

If he'd bothered to check before now, he'd have known something was off. His magic is a swirling vortex of blue-white light, the picture of his energy as electricity solidifying for him long before he'd even dreamed of being drafted by the Lightning. There's something dark in it, though, something deep and hard to make out in the center of the vortex. He's never seen it before. He's never felt it.

"There is something," he gasps out, opening his eyes. "I can see it. I can tell it's there when I look at it."

"It might be nothing," Dr. Matin says firmly. "My first thought was your warding, your new team. That could be all, Jonathan. There's no call for panic."

Except Jo remembers looking at the Bolts' warding, inspecting it and poking it with his own magic as it had settled into him. It hadn't been like that. It hadn't been anything close to like that.

"Dr. Matin is going to call his colleague, honey," Mrs. MacKinnon says, reaching out to squeeze Jo's shoulder. "We're heading up to Fall River, and she'll see us as soon as we get there."

"Okay," Jo says faintly, holding on for all he's worth. "Okay. Thank you."

"I'm going to write you a prescription," Dr. Matin says, like Jo's in here for a sinus infection and not a strained muscle and possibly something wrong with his magic. "It'll help with the pain. Don't take any until after you've seen Dr. Katz."

"Thank you," Mrs. MacKinnon says, taking the slip from him. "For everything, Dr. Matin."

He makes a shooing motion towards them. "Go be better," he says, and then he bustles out of the room.

-0-

Dr. Katz is a brisk, no-nonsense woman. Her examination takes about fifteen minutes, and she doesn't speak once during it, no _hms_ or _ohs_ or any other noises that Jo didn't realise he would miss until Dr. Katz doesn't make them. When she finishes, she sits back and dusts her hands off like she's been digging around in a garden instead of in Jo's magic.

"Well," she says. "The good news is that you're not sick."

Jo takes a steadying breath. "What's the bad news?"

"There's more good news first," she says, bare trace of a smile on her face for a moment before it flashes away. "You're also not cursed, which is what I thought might be the case when Dr. Matin called."

"What is it?" Mrs. MacKinnon asks. "Is he okay?"

"You've come in contact with some bad magic," Dr. Katz says. "It's a little difficult to explain without getting into a lot of spell theory, but the simplest way to put it is that somewhere, a spell went wrong, and your magic touched it in some way. It could have been yesterday, or it could have been years ago. There's no way to tell."

"Is that why I got—hurt?" he amends at the last second. This doctor can't tell him if it's why he's back in Halifax when he doesn't belong here.

"It was very possibly a contributing factor," she says, nodding. "The good news is that we can fix it. It will take some time, but Dr. Matin tells me you'll be at least two weeks before you're back to walking comfortably. We can take care of it before you get back on the ice."

"Oh, thank god," Mrs. MacKinnon says, relief evident in her voice. "Is there some sort of warding we can use in the future, to prevent something like this from happening again?"

Above and beyond Jo's inability to actually drive himself all the way here, he's glad that Mrs. MacKinnon is with him now. That's not a question he would've thought to ask on his own. Mom powers, probably.

"Unfortunately, there's no real preventative measure," Dr. Katz says. "It's part of why practitioners are supposed to check up on spellwork regularly; if whoever cast this bad magic had caught it before Jo came into contact with it, then they could have fixed it and this never would've happened." She shakes her head in apparent disappointment. "The best I can tell you to do is to meditate more regularly. You'll be more likely to notice it if something goes wrong again, and it could help you pinpoint where the bad magic is."

"I can do that," Jo says. He's not sure he'd be able to stop himself at this point. He knows he can't actually feel whatever it is in his magic, but he's always had too good an imagination.

"Good," Dr. Katz says firmly. "I'm going to pull out the bad magic, and I will warn you, it's not going to be a pleasant experience."

Jo shudders a little. It sounds kind of awful, but it has to be done, so he nods. "How long will it take?"

"Ten minutes now," Dr. Katz says. "You'll have to come back every few days so I can pull more out. Doing it all at once would be…" She hesitates. "It takes much longer, and there are some considerable risks. We have the time to spread it out, so that's my recommendation."

Mrs. MacKinnon hums a little. "And what are the risks of doing it over a longer period of time?"

"Tiredness, mostly," Dr. Katz replies. "You'll be nauseous tonight, and medicine won't do much to help with that. Each session will be less and less tiring. There's a very, very small risk that spreading it out will make the bad magic spread, but it's barely even worth mentioning, that's how unlikely it is." She shifts. "When you come in next time, I'll be able to tell if it has right away. If it has, well, we'll talk about other options."

"Jo?" Mrs. MacKinnon says gently. "This is your choice, sweetie. We can call your parents if you want to ask their opinion, too."

"Can I," he says before his brain catches up to his mouth. "Uh."

"I'll step outside," Dr. Katz says, nodding to Jo. "When you're ready, just open the door."

"Thank you," Mrs. MacKinnon says as Dr. Katz leaves. Once the door closes, she turns and looks at Jo. "What's on your mind?"

"I want to talk to Nathan," he says. He can feel his face heating up; the tips of his ears are practically on fire.

Mrs. MacKinnon's face softens. "Of course, Jo. Do you want me to step out, too?"

Part of Jo feels bad asking her to leave, but he nods anyway. She smiles and walks over, giving him a hug before she follows Dr. Katz out the door.

Jo digs his phone out and takes a steadying breath. Nate's the last person he texted, so it's easy to pull up their conversation. _busy?_

 _nope,_ Nate replies a moment later. _how was practice?_

Jo calls, and he doesn't have to wait long before Nate picks up. "Hey," he says, warm and open, and Jo misses him fiercely in a way he hasn't let himself think about since he got sent back. "What's up?"

"Can you," Jo manages. "The translation?"

Nate makes a small noise into the phone. "Okay, hang on," he says. There's some shuffling noises, then the sound of Nate murmuring away from the phone.

Translation spells are finicky; nobody uses language in precisely the same way, so a universal translation spell is pretty much hopeless. It's possible for two people to create translation spells to use with each other, but it can be a lot of work if they don't already share a common language. Jo feels like he got really lucky with Nate for a lot of reasons, but the effort Nate had been so determined to put into getting a translation spell for Jo's French as right as they could is definitely up there.

"Testing, testing," Nate says a moment later.

Jo takes a ragged breath even as he smiles a little. "Aubergine."

"Eggplant," Nate says cheerily. "Man, I'm glad we picked that as our test word. It's ridiculous."

"Nathan," Jo says, and then the whole story spills out: his injury, the visit with Dr. Matin, what Dr. Katz had said. He tells Nate about his worry that it might have affected him being sent down, and his worry that it could happen again. Nate stays quiet on the other end, and Jo would wonder if the call had dropped, except he can hear Nate breathing when he pauses for his own breaths.

"Wow," Nate murmurs when Jo finally gets through it all. "That's a lot. Wow."

"I know," Jo mumbles. He's not sure if he's speaking English or French at this point; it doesn't matter, not with the translation spell going. "I want it to be over."

"You can ask her to do it all at once," Nate says gently. "Just make sure you ask her about all the risks, too. You made it sound like she wasn't too thrilled with doing it that way."

"She's definitely not," Jo mutters. "Maybe I'll just do it the slow way. It's not like doing it the long way is going to keep me from playing."

"You'll be back soon," Nate says. "But maybe taking the long way is better for this."

"Is that what you'd do?"

There's silence on the other end of the line for a long moment, and then Nate laughs. "Honestly, Jo, I'd probably ask my mom what to do, and then go with whatever she said."

Jo laughs, and something in his chest eases. "So I should have just skipped calling you and asked her instead?"

"It would have been faster," Nate says. "But I'm glad you called me anyway."

"I'm glad I called too." Jo sighs a little. "I should go, get this whole thing started."

"Call me later," Nate says. "No game tonight. All I have on my plate is reffing a round of mini-sticks for Giguere's kids, so I can talk when you're done."

"Okay," Jo replies. "Love you."

"Love you too," Nate says, and Jo can hear the smile in his voice.

They hang up, and Jo takes another deep breath before nodding resolutely and gingerly making his way to the door. He pushes it open and sticks his head out, and somehow isn't surprised to find Mrs. MacKinnon and Dr. Katz waiting a little ways down the hall.

"I'm ready," he says.

-0-

The season is not what he'd hoped it would be.

Each session with Dr. Katz leaves him groggy and sick for a day afterwards, but by the time his groin heals, his magic is pronounced healthy as well. It's good to get back into the lineup, and the Mooseheads do well; they make the playoffs, but Jo can tell they're not going to repeat. They've done a decent job patching over the Nate-shaped hole in their roster, but they haven't done enough to replace him, and it shows when they lose in the semifinals.

Jo plays well, even if they don't get as far as a team. He racks up points left and right, but there's something in the back of his head the whole time asking why nobody from the Lightning has reached out to him, to his agent. The radio silence makes him feel like they sent him down and promptly forgot about him. It's not a great thought, especially since there's no way to subtly check to see how true it might be.

It's both great and difficult to watch Nate's season; he does amazing things with the guys in Colorado, and Jo is completely unsurprised when Nate is named a Calder finalist. "After the season you had," he says when Nate calls, somehow speechless at the nomination. "What were they going to do, give it to someone else?"

"I haven't won it yet," Nate protests.

"Yet," Jo echoes, grin stretching across his face. This, at least, is easy. "How many days until the awards? That's as long as you have to keep saying 'yet.'"

"You're coming, right?" Nate asks. He sounds confident, but Jo knows him well enough to hear the hesitance he's buried. "I mean, even if it's not as—you're still family."

"Nathan," Jo says quietly. He closes his eyes sighs. "Not outside of Québéc. It's not the same."

"You are," Nate insists. "Please."

When they were sixteen and new to all of this, to playing together and to the Q and to the way everything between them just seemed to be _right_ all the time, they'd snuck away for a couple of hours on a road trip to Baie-Comeau. There's magic in the earth that far north, and they hadn't really known what they were doing except that it was something they wouldn't be able to take back, something that would bind them to each other through thick and thin. It had been tedious, layers upon layers of magic overlapping, both of them tracing patterns against the hard-packed ground they'd dug through the snow to reach. Finally, though, the earth had given them what they were asking for: a pool of water had formed, shimmering silvery between them, and when they'd both reached into it they'd known it had worked.

 _There's more than one way to be family,_ Jo's father had said to him when he was small, asking how he had a Tatie Therese when she wasn't Mama's or Papa's sister. _Sometimes you love a friend so much they become like your family, and sometimes if you love them more than that, they_ are _family._

The spellwork had left delicate marks across their hands, a faint circle with a line splitting it neatly in two. The marks had faded as they headed back to the hotel where the rest of the team had been staying, and once they'd crossed from Québéc into New Brunswick, it had disappeared entirely.

The magic is still there, though, and Jo can feel Nate pushing at it now. Even if everything else was taken from both of them, Jo knows, they'd still have this.

"I'll be there," he promises. "I wouldn't miss it."

As Jo had predicted, Nate wins the Calder; of course Nate wins the Calder. Jo is sitting beside Mrs. MacKinnon when Nate's name is called, and she holds his hand and cheers so loudly that Jo's sure the cameras will somehow pick up her voice above everyone else's. Jo can't help his own grin, or how he's so proud of Nate that he feels it must be shining through his skin, visible to everyone around him.

They go home after the awards, each to their own places; Nate heads to Cole Harbour, and Jo is back in Ste-Agathe. They train and they train and they train; Jo keeps up with his meditation and hassles Nate into doing it, too. The further into the summer they get, the more convinced Jo becomes that he must have encountered the bad magic at some point in his past, probably around the point when he decided hockey was more important than meditating. It means he's been carrying it around for far longer than he's comfortable admitting, but it seems to make the most sense.

Nate visits him in the heat of August, between Jo's rookie camp and when they'll have to go to training camp. They train together like it's last year, or two summers ago, like they're both heading back to the Mooseheads in a few weeks, instead of Nate going to Colorado for the season and Jo heading to Tampa for however long they'll keep him this time. He's optimistic; the bad magic must have been part of why he was sent down. He's convinced. Plus, with St. Louis heading to the Rangers, they're in need of another winger who can play good minutes. Jo's not a right winger by trade, but he'll do whatever he has to if it means getting a shot at the lineup.

The night before Nate leaves, a week before they head back to hockey, they go into the backyard and lay in the grass. It's itchy and uncomfortable, end-of-summer dry and crackling beneath them, but it's worth it for the way Nate reaches out to grab Jo's hand. He lifts it a little, shading it from the lights shining from the house, and looks at the mark on Jo's hand. "No matter what," he says quietly, laying Jo's hand back down as he laces their fingers together.

"Family," Jo agrees, holding on tightly. "No matter what."

-0-

The last week at home is busy enough that Jo lets his meditation slide; he's got so much to do, and he's been fine all summer. He'll pick it back up again when he's in Tampa, he tells himself.

Except Tampa means training camp; Tampa means meeting Stamkos as the new captain, means looking around the locker room and seeing the way the magic has changed, shifted and crumbled in places where St. Louis had been holding it together. Stamkos can't see it, even though it's anchoring itself onto his back now; when Jo looks around, tries to figure out who's in charge of fixing what's so obviously broken, he finds himself left with Ben Bishop.

"Ah," Jo says hesitantly. They're all out for lunch together; it's a supervised break from training disguised as team bonding, but Jo will take what he can get. "Hello."

"Hi, kid," Bishop says. It's not actually true, but Jo feels like Bishop sitting is taller than Jo is standing. "How's camp?"

"Good, fine," Jo says. He glances around. "I… maybe you're not the right person to talk to, so tell me if I'm out of place, but—"

Bishop sighs. "There's nothing I can do about it."

Jo blinks. "What?"

Bishop gestures vaguely towards the ceiling. "It's all falling apart, and you can tell, right? And you can tell Stammer can't do anything about it."

"He seems like a good fit for captain," Jo starts, and Bishop snorts.

"But there's not a drop of magic in him," Bishop finishes. "Look, you're not wrong about any of it, but I don't have a way to fix what's wrong. None of us do. Marty kept that shit together all on his own, and right now, it's still looking for him." Bishop sighs. "We told management, and management said they'd get someone on it. Before the start of the season, probably. But until they get someone in, it's gonna keep being all…"

"Broken," Jo supplies. "So keep my head up, that's what you're saying here?"

Bishop laughs. "Kid, if you haven't learned to keep your head by this point, there's no point in me telling you to."

Jo grins in response. "Thanks anyway."

"Hey," Bishop says lightly as Jo turns and starts walking back to his seat. Jo turns again, and Bishop is grinning. "Keep your head up."

It feels like Bishop is in his corner, at least; it's a good thought to have as he goes through training camp, skating and passing and playing with everything he's got. He feels good about his chances, even though he's trying not to think too hard about it. He'd thought the same thing last year, and look what had happened then.

It occurs to him during practice that he hasn't done his meditation in almost a month; he's felt fine, but there's no real reason for him to not take ten minutes before bed just to check in. For now, though, he needs to concentrate on practice, because—

Jo falls, is the embarrassing thing. It's as if he catches an edge and goes over, but it feels like more of a stumble, a kid in his first pair of skates losing his balance. Everything goes just slightly wrong in the fall: his body twisting, his arm going out to catch himself even though he knows better, a crunch as he hits the ice. He can tell even as he's getting back to his feet that something's wrong; he ignores his teammates' jeering and skates for the bench, leaning over to get Coach's attention. "I think," he says, cradling his hand to his body. "Maybe I should get this checked out. Something… popped."

It's easier to say than _broke_ , and anyway, his hand still feels like his hand. It's not like some of the grotesque broken fingers he's seen happen in hockey.

Coach's face clouds. "Trainers' room," he says, nodding to the tunnel.

Jo takes a deep breath and goes, pulling off most of his gear in the locker room and padding to the trainers' room in his socks. "Coach told me to come down," he says when he reaches the doorway. He doesn't want to risk knocking. "I think something might be wrong with my hand."

They bustle around him, one casting a diagnostic on his hand while the other has him lay it out for an X-ray. It takes them a little while to compare notes, but Jo already knows what they're going to say.

"It's your thumb," Marisol finally tells him. "It looks like a stress fracture on the X-ray. Nothing super bad, nothing that requires surgery, but you shouldn't hold a stick for a while."

"Not forever," Dave hastens to add. "You should be playing again in a few weeks. A month at the most. It's not the end of the world."

"Unless they send me back down," Jo says bleakly, staring at his hand.

"They won't," Marisol says firmly. "Or, well. They won't until you've healed. You broke it here, so you'll heal here." She shrugs and smiles a little. "I can't promise anything after that, but we're not sending you away before we fix you."

"That's not as comforting as you think it is," Jo says.

David laughs a little. "Sorry, but we don't actually speak French. You'd think someone on the training staff would, but we haven't managed that hire yet."

Jo manages a smile. "Not important. So, what's the plan?"

They outline it for him and send him home with some painkillers; it's just rest for the first little while, then some light rehab, and probably a few games in Syracuse before he comes back to play with the team. He thanks them when they're done, goes to the locker room to finish changing, and gets in his car and heads back to the hotel.

He dials Nate without thinking, putting it on speaker and letting it ring. He realises after a few rings that Nate's probably at camp, just like Jo's supposed to be, but just as he's reaching for his phone to hang up, Nate answers. "Jo?"

"Aubergine," Jo says, trying to keep his voice even.

Nate swears. "They did not send you back down _again_ ," he says, sounding angry, but before Jo can say anything, he adds, "Hang on, let me cast it."

"Aubergine," Jo repeats when Nate stops murmuring on the other end.

"Eggplant," Nate says. "Jo, god, what happened?"

"I broke my thumb," Jo blurts out. "Of all the stupid things to do, Nathan, I fell over in practice and I broke my thumb. A month, probably."

Nate sighs. "Shit. That's… what did they say?" _About you staying,_ he doesn't have to add.

"The trainers said they won't send me down until I'm healed," he says, taking the exit for his hotel. "They broke me, they have some obligation to fix me. There's no telling what will happen after that, though."

"Oh, Jo," Nate says, sighing. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Jo replies, pulling into the hotel and parking his car. "And here's the thing. Are you ready for this?" He laughs without humor. "I stopped doing my meditation, because nothing was happening and I was busy. I was thinking about checking in tonight, and then I fell." He swallows. "What if… what if it's back?"

"What are the chances of that?" Nate counters. "Really low, right? I doubt it's back, Jo. There's no reason for it to be back."

"What if it is?" Jo asks, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the headrest.

"Then you call Dr. Katz," Nate says after a moment. "She can find someone to help you wherever you are, I'm sure."

Jo sighs. "Yeah."

They sit in silence for a moment before Nate sighs, crackling over the connection. "Wish I was there," he says. "I wish you weren't going through this on your own."

It makes Jo smile, just a little bit, because it's such a Nate thing to say. "You answered the phone. I'm not alone."

"Still," Nate says.

"Love you," Jo replies. "I'm going to go inside and do my meditation, and then I'm taking a painkiller and resting. I'll call you later?"

"Let me know how the meditation goes," Nate says. "And hey, love you too."

Jo walks inside still smiling a little. It's hard not to, after talking to Nate; he's a really positive person, and knowing he'll always be on Jo's side is a good thing to remember from time to time.

It takes him a little while to calm down enough to meditate. His hand is starting to swell and throb, but he knows if he takes a painkiller, he won't be able to concentrate well enough to meditate. It's a little tough to balance, but Jo settles onto his bed and breathes deep and even until he can sink into his magic.

He notices it right away, maybe because he knows what he's looking for this time. It's a lot smaller than it had been at the start of last season, but when he reaches towards it, it shrinks back into the larger vortex of his magic, staying just out of his reach. It's enough for Jo to blink his eyes open and scramble for his phone, forgetting for a second that his thumb is broken. He ends up on his back in the middle of the bed, resting his broken hand beside him while he tries to dial with the other hand.

"Nathan," he says bleakly as soon as Nate picks up. "It's back."

-0-

Dr. Katz is, indeed, able to find him someone to work with in Tampa; it only take two sessions to pull the bad magic out this time. "It's probably because there's not that much of it there," Dr. Hu explains. "You did a good job of catching it early."

"I just wish I knew where it was coming from," Jo tells him. "Maybe it's somewhere I can avoid."

Dr. Hu hums. "I can't say for certain, but I think probably not," he says. "Your magic is more sensitive than most people I treat, but I think that even you would have a hard time picking up sour magic like this with just one point of contact."

Jo blinks a little. "Wait, what do you mean, I'm more sensitive?"

"Well, most people around here either cast or break," Dr. Hu says. "They only train one part of their magic, so the other part is… shut down, more or less. You, though, you've trained both sides of your magic. It gives you an advantage when it comes to using your skills, but it also leaves you more open."

It makes sense, Jo thinks even as he's reeling a little. "Why did nobody ever tell me that?"

Dr. Hu shrugs a little. "When you live in a place where it's common to cast and to break, it's not a big deal. And when you live in a place where it's common to only train one part of your magic, it's not a big deal, but in a different way. It's making the transition that brings issues, sometimes."

Jo leaves with his hands shaking and a perimeter charm that Dr. Hu says will help him notice bad magic around him. "It's not foolproof," he cautions as he walks Jo through casting it. "And it needs to be renewed every four days, or it will sour on its own."

He calls Nate because Nate is family; Nate is, as always, himself, and Jo feels steadier by the time he gets back to his hotel room. He's almost better enough to pack up and head to Syracuse for a little bit of a training stint before they put him back into the lineup. He hopes.

He works his ass off in Syracuse; it's not quite like being sent back to Halifax, but it's more because he doesn't know anyone here than because of the skill level. It's not that the guys in Syracuse aren't good, but Jo's an NHL player. He just puts his head down and skates, does everything that's asked of him, and hopes that he makes it when he goes back to Tampa.

He's more relieved than he can really explain when Cooper and Yzerman take him aside and assure him he'll make it. "You'd've been here all year, if it wasn't for your injury," Cooper assures him, his eyes flicking around the room. "You proved yourself in camp, Jonathan. You're gonna be a great addition to this team."

Jo smiles and thanks them, and then he goes out and he _plays_.

His hand still hurts when he starts playing, but the trainers have pronounced him healed, so he grits his teeth and forces his fingers to bend around his stick like they're supposed to. He gets into board battles; he skates between defenders and slips the puck neatly behind every goaltender he can get to move, and shoves it in messy when they don't bite. He plays as hard as he can and just hopes it's enough.

He's recasting his perimeter charm after a rough win against the Capitals when Callahan walks back into the locker room. He tends to forget at least two things after every game, so it's not really unusual, but instead of going to his stall he stops in front of Jo.

"Uh," Cally says, frowning a little. "You have a visitor, man."

Jo finishes casting the charm and looks up. "What? How did someone get down here?"

"Okay, rephrasing," Cally says. "It's Ovi. Alexander Ovechkin just grabbed my arm and asked me to come in here and tell you he wanted to talk to you."

The locker room goes absolutely silent. "What," Jo manages after a moment.

"I'll tell him to fuck off if you want," Stamkos offers. He's a good captain, even if Jo sometimes looks at him in this place and wonders how the magic doesn't eat him alive. "You don't have to talk to him. What the hell does he want, anyway?"

"I have no idea," Jo says honestly. He's ready to go, and he's equal parts curious and nervous. "I'll talk to him. Thanks, though."

"Yell if you need anything," Bishop says. He sounds completely serious, and Jo's suddenly really grateful for Bishop and Stamkos. Even if he hasn't quite managed to make friends with most of the guys on the team yet, but he has no doubt that if he goes into the hall and starts yelling, those two will come running.

"Thanks, Bish," Jo says, standing and talking a deep breath. "See you at practice, guys."

Part of Jo was expecting to find one of the other guys yelling _got you_ when he walks into the hallway, but instead, Ovechkin beams at him from where he's slumped against the wall a little ways down. "Drouin!" he says, cheerfully mangling Jo's last name. "I thought maybe you were sleeping here. I'm waiting and I'm waiting, so finally I ask Cally, is he still in there? So he went to get you for me."

"Uh," Jo says. "I'm… a little confused."

"We should get drinks," Ovechkin says grandly. "We have to talk, you and me. Very important."

"We do?" Jo asks. He definitely missed something here. "And, ah. I can't drink in the US." He shrugs a little, sheepish.

"You with Ovi," is the answer he gets. "You want to get drinks, we get drinks."

"Sure," Jo says after a moment, when it becomes clear Ovechkin's waiting for an answer. "Let's… get drinks."

"Good, good," Ovechkin says, smiling at him. "I call taxi already. You bring wallet and keys, leave everything else here. Don't want to lose." He smiles again and points at the locker room. "Taxi here soon. Go get keys."

Jo nods and walks back into the locker room. He has no idea what kind of expression is on his face, but Bishop takes one look at him and cracks up.

"Wow, kid," he says, grinning hard. "Did he want your autograph or something?"

"He wants to go for drinks?" Jo says, uncertain. He's aware that he sounds unsure, but he goes to his stall and grabs his keys and his wallet. After a moment of hesitation, he leaves his cell phone. He doesn't need to drunk text anyone tonight, and besides, Ovechkin hadn't said to bring it.

Stamkos is beside him when Jo turns around. "Hey," he says quietly. "You okay? Do you need an out?"

"No," Jo says. "I'm going to go. I'm gonna get drinks with Ovechkin." He sort of wants to laugh, but he manages to swallow it down.

"Okay," Stamkos says, nodding slowly. He turns and looks across the room. "Hey, Bish?"

"Yo," Bishop says, suddenly right there.

"Jon's going to get drinks with Ovechkin," Stamkos says, far more calmly than Jo had managed. "He's leaving his phone here. Can you do a…" He pauses and wiggles his fingers. "A thing?"

"A thing," Bishop repeats, clearly amused. He turns to Jo. "What do you think, kid? You up for a _thing_?"

"What sort of thing?" Jo asks, smiling a little despite himself. _Team,_ something inside him says. It's just another kind of family, really.

"A tracking thing," Bishop says, shrugging. "Wherever you are, I'll be able to find you. If you need me, you think about me showing up where you are, and I'll get to you. It'll wear off in a day or so."

Jo blinks. "That's… really high-level magic."

"Goalies can find things," Bishop says, smiling a little. "It's in the job description."

Jo laughs and holds his hand out. "Okay, go for it," he says.

It's always interesting watching someone else use their magic; everyone's got their own visualisations, and where Jo sees his own magic as sparks and bolts, Bishop's flows from his hands like air currents. It's like watching clouds move, and there's something oddly soothing about it. Bishop wraps his magic around Jo's wrist and murmurs, gesturing with his hand for a moment before stretching his fingers out and then making a fist. His magic flows back into his hand, and when he opens it up, it's gone.

"Okay, close your eyes," Bishop instructs. "Think about where you grew up, your living room, and then think about me walking in the door."

Jo does as asked; it's a little silly, imagining Bishop walking through his parents' house in Ste-Agathe, but after a few seconds Bishop hums a little. "Good, good. It's all set." He claps Jo on the arm as he opens his eyes back up. "If you need me, just picture me walking in, and hold it for as long as you can, okay? I'll find you."

"Thanks," Jo says, nodding at Bishop, then Stamkos. "I'll get in touch tomorrow, let you know I'm okay."

"Don't try to outdrink him and everything should be fine," Stamkos says lightly. "Have fun. Not everyone gets to drink with Ovechkin."

It's true, so Jo grins as he heads back into the hallway. He just wishes he had a clue as to why he got this particular honor.

-0-

Jo's heard the stories about what _drinking with Ovechkin_ usually entails, so he's a little surprised when the taxi drops them off at a quiet-looking bar a few miles from Amelie. Ovechkin says something to the guy at the door, who nods a little and steps aside. He doesn't even look at Jo as he walks by.

"What you want?" Ovechkin asks. "I get you Shirley Temple if you don't want real drink." He smiles, and even in the dim lighting of the bar, it doesn't feel threatening at all. It's not at all what Jo would've thought this would be like, if it had ever crossed his mind.

Jo laughs a little. "A beer," he says. "Thanks."

"Go, sit," Ovechkin says, pointing towards the back. "Big empty booth at back. I find you."

Ovechkin goes to the bar, and Jo heads for the back of the room. Sure enough, there's an empty booth at the back, and when Jo slides in, he can feel the shiver of a spell against his skin. He reaches out warily, feeling out the pattern of the spellwork, and blinks as he recognises it.

"So," he says when Ovechkin plunks a beer down in front of him and slides into the other side of the booth. "Why are we going for drinks at a bar with a eavesdrop-proof booth?"

"Oh, you _very_ good," Ovechkin says appreciatively. "When I was your age, all I know is spell is here. Too much hockey, no room for anything else." He laughs like it's the funniest joke in the world.

Jo takes a sip of his beer, more for something to do than anything else. It's better than the stuff he's used to, but then, he's used to whatever they could sneak on a roadie to Shawinigan. This is strong and dark and slightly spiced; part of him wants to make a note of what it is, so he can order it again, but the rest of him just wants to know what's going on here.

Ovechkin sighs and takes a small sip of whatever he's got in his glass. It's clear, and all Jo can tell by the smell is that it's not gin. Vodka, he'd guess, but nothing about tonight has been what he thought, so he wouldn't put money on that. "So," he says.

"So," Jo echoes. He fiddles with the edge of the label on the bottle. "Uh. What's… going on?"

"I tell you before, I need talk to you, Drouin," Ovechkin says.

Jo makes a face. "Jo, please."

Ovechkin laughs. "I bad, I know. Okay, Jo, you call me Alex. Or Ovi, if that's weird. No _Ovechkin_ here."

 _Jo_ sounds a lot better in Ovi's accent than Jo's used to around here; English harshens his name, makes it clipped and short, but the way Ovi says it reminds Jo of home. It's comforting in a way it maybe shouldn't be, but Jo can't help feeling it anyway. "Ovi," he acknowledges. "What do we need to talk about?"

"Magic," Ovi says simple. "You and me, Jo, we different here. At home, we just like how everyone does it, but here… we different."

Jo sucks in a sharp breath as Ovi draws a slow circle in the air. It fills with deep red light and hangs in the air. "We cast," Ovi says, gesturing to it. Then he slashes his hand through it, and the circle shatters. "And we break. And that makes us different."

"I've noticed," Jo says, clutching his bottle. He hesitates, then takes a sip. "I'm more sensitive to… magic things."

Ovi nods. "It weird with team, too," he says. "You make friends, but not all, not many. Mostly guys who like us, or no magic." He laughs a little. "Or goalies. Goalies different, too."

Jo thinks about Stamkos, about Bishop, about how reaching out to most of the other guys on the team seems like too much… something. About how Cally had spoken to him like he was practically a stranger, a one-night call-up from Syracuse instead of a member of the team. Polite, but distant.

"Yeah," he says, instead of articulating that. Ovi knows.

"It partly because of team magic," Ovi says. His voice is oddly gentle. "Not you. I know, I say 'don't take personally,' doesn't mean lots to you, but." He shrugs a little. "They don't mean to. Team magic doesn't know how to deal with outsiders."

"It doesn't have any problem with other new guys," Jo protests.

"Outsiders not mean new," Ovi says. "Means different. Means…" He sighs. "Look, Jo. You know League is… sort of shit, right? About everyone who not a white guy from Toronto."

Jo remembers talking to Nate when he'd been sent down last year. _I don't need Don Cherry calling me out on Coach's Corner._ If you're not a white Anglo guy, the League doesn't know what to do with you. Apparently that goes deeper than Jo had ever suspected. He nods at Ovi.

"Team magic not know how to handle people like us," Ovi says. "It doesn't know how to make space."

"Wait," Jo says, frowning. "When I was here last year, though, it _did_. I could tell it was changing for me."

Ovi smiles at him. "And who was in charge then, hm? Who was captain, holding all the magic together?"

"Martin St. Louis," Jo says automatically. His eyes widen a second later. "He's Québécois."

"He know," Ovi says. "He try to help team magic make a space for you, but…" He shrugs. "Maybe you sent down because you need it, but maybe magic tell everybody you don't belong. I can't tell you for sure."

"It really could have been the magic," Jo says, stunned.

"Either way, you good enough now," Ovi says cheerily. "You kick our ass tonight."

Jo snorts a little. "I didn't get a point."

"Not the only way to have impact on a game," Ovi says. "Don't listen to what Don Cherry say about me. I know things."

It makes Jo smile. "I don't doubt that."

"Good, at least _somebody_ believe me," Ovi says, grinning as he takes another sip of his drink.

"What do I do, though?" he asks. "I mean, people like us, we play all the time. St. Louis was the captain here. You're captain. It has to work eventually."

"Team magic can't make a place for us," Ovi says. "So we make a place for ourselves. Punch a hole." He mimes a punch, popping his lips for effect. "You cast and you break. You can find space for yourself, if you look."

Jo thinks about the fractured, fragmented mess that is his team's magic. It's all holes, is the problem. There are plenty of places, but he's not sure there's enough fabric left to knit himself into.

"Why doesn't it just work?" he asks. He knows he's whining a little.

Ovi shrugs. "If you go to Habs, probably it work fine. You not different in Montréal."

"That makes sense," Jo says slowly. "What about you? Montréal, too?"

"Maybe Detroit," he replies. "Lots of Russians there. Washington working for me, though."

"So I just need to make a space for myself," Jo says. His beer is getting kind of warm, but he takes a healthy swallow anyway.

"If you make a hole and put yourself in, then what is magic going to do?" Ovi says. "Principle of, of. I don't know word."

"Least resistance," Jo says. "It'll use what's there to fill the hole instead of trying to shove it out and fill it another way."

"Exactly," Ovi says. "See, I said you a smart one."

Jo laughs. "Thanks for talking to me," he says. "Even if Bish thinks you might be kidnapping me or something."

"Of course," Ovi says. "We need to stick together, even if we gonna beat you next time."

"How'd you find this place, anyway?" Jo asks, looking around. "I mean, it doesn't seem very… you."

Ovi laughs and throws back the last of his drink. "The person who tell me," he says, looking around. "He bring me here. I score two goals, he score one. He win anyway, take me out after."

"St. Louis," Jo says, realisation dawning. "He told you, and now you're telling me."

"You find someone to tell someday, too," Ovi says. He sounds a little tired. "Or League fix its shit first, maybe." He pauses and snorts. "Or maybe pigs fly, yes?"

"Maybe," Jo agrees, finishing his beer. "I guess we'll see."

"We will," Ovi says. He fishes around in his pocket for something, then holds out a cell phone. "You put your number in, and I will text. You need help punching holes, you call me."

Jo reaches out and takes the phone, putting his name and number in and not quite believing it even as he's doing it. Ovi takes it back with a smile, then texts something. He turns it around and beams, and Jo snorts; it's two basketball emojis and, for some reason, a bear face.

"Make that my name," he says. "Basketball, basketball, Ovi, bear face."

"A basketball?" Jo asks, raising an eyebrow.

"My mama played," Ovi says proudly. "Russian Olympic team, World Championships. Won lots of gold medals."

Jo smiles. "I'll do it," he promises. He's pretty sure that if he doesn't, Ovi will somehow find out.

"Good," Ovi declares. "Now, we take taxi back to arena, you get things and go home, I go to hotel. You text Bishop, tell him you not kidnapped."

Jo laughs. "I'll do that."

-0-

It's not easy to take Ovi's advice; as Jo had thought, the team's magic is less fabric and more like netting. It's still connected, it's still holding, but it's more concerned with keeping itself together than filling any holes Jo might be able to put his magic into. 

He mentions it to Bishop in December; he gets a point in a win against Philly, and it's the kind of thing that would have made him proud in Halifax, the team's happiness spilling through and making him blush, probably. "The magic," he says when they're dressing after their showers. "Is it… it doesn't look like it's getting any better."

Bishop sighs. "There's still nothing I can do, kid."

"Someone has to be able to do something," Jo says. He throws a spark out, and they both watch as it fizzles out. "This can't hold. Something is going to _happen_."

"Nobody can hurt us," Bishop starts.

Jo waves him off. "I don't mean on the ice. I mean…" He's not sure how to explain it, the tightness in his chest the longer he goes sitting on the outside, the surety that's settling into his bones that this is going to hurt someone. "We're warded on the ice, I know. No spells allowed, and no magic makes it over the glass."

"If only we could extend that spellwork so it catches those stupid rats in Sunrise," Bishop mutters. "What are you saying, then?"

It makes Jo stare a little. He's not sure how Bishop can't already tell. "It looks like it's all about to snap," he finally says. "Like… like it can't hold itself together for much longer."

Bishop frowns. "It's not that bad," he says. "I mean, it's not perfect, but it's not gonna _break_."

"I don't know," Jo says, but Bishop is shaking his head.

"They're getting someone in to look at things," he says. "I'll mention it to Coop, okay? Maybe he can pass it along, that the magic situation is starting to freak some people out. That might get them moving."

"Okay," Jo says. "Thanks, Bish."

"You can thank me with more goal support," he says, grinning. "I'm always a fan of that."

Jo does his best, and so does everyone else on the team; they do well enough to make the playoffs, which is kind of amazing. Jo's disappointed that he only gets one game in the Detroit series; he's confused when he's scratched for all but two of the Montréal series. His numbers aren't perfect by any means, but he's playing solidly, and they're winning. There's only so much he can do with the limited ice time he's getting.

He's out entirely against the Rangers, and that's when he thinks to check his perimeter charm. It hasn't buzzed once since he started casting it, which had been giving him peace of mind, but if something slipped through, it could be part of why he's not being given ice time. After they close out the series and Jo realises they're going to the Finals, he sits in his hotel room and does his meditation.

His magic shrieks at him somehow, swirling around a sick-looking blue-black mass. It's throbbing dully, and his magic pricks at it, bounces off, tries again.

Jo pulls himself out of his meditation in a panic and dives for his phone. His fingers are shaking as he pulls up Nate's number.

"Hey, congrats," Nate says warmly when he picks up. "Finals, baby! You are literally living the dream. Well, except it's from the press box, but they'll play you in the Finals. They have to."

"I am sick," Jo says, voice shaking. "Nathan, my magic is—"

"Shit," Nate says, suddenly serious. "Are you—is it hurting you? What's going on?"

"The bad magic," Jo says, scrubbing at his face. "It's everywhere. All in my magic. The charm—it didn't work, Nathan."

"Okay, babe, hold on," Nate says. There's rustling on the other end of the line. "I'm putting you on speaker, okay? Mom, it's Jo. The bad magic thing it's back, and it's bad."

"Jo, honey, where are you?" Mrs. MacKinnon asks. She sounds calm, and it makes something painfully young in Jo settle a little. "Are you with someone?"

"I'm in my room, Maman," he says, grasping the comforter in his fist. "My roommate is—everyone is out. Celebrating." He gulps. "We won."

"Congratulations," she says. "I'm very proud of you, sweetie. Is there a trainer or a coach in the hotel you can go to?"

"I don't know," he says. He feels panicky, a little lightheaded. "I don't know, Maman. They were all happy, and I came back and did my meditation. It's everywhere."

"Okay, honey," she says soothingly. "Nate, I need you to call someone who knows someone. Jo, sweetie, what room are you in? Do you know?"

Jo blinks a few times. His keycard is sitting on the bedside table, right on top of the sleeve it had come in, with the room number scrawled across the top. "507," he reads. 

"507," she repeats. "Okay, that's good. We're getting you some help, okay? Nate's on the phone with Sid. He's gonna get someone to room 507 to help you."

"I don't," Jo gasps. It feels like his chest is constricting, like he can't get a breath in. "Nathan?"

"It's okay, Jo," Nate says. "Sid has done Team Canada stuff with a few guys on the Rangers. He's calling them right now, and they're gonna get you some help." He sounds as calm as Mrs. MacKinnon. "Can you get to the door and prop it open? If you can't, we'll call the front desk."

Jo feels like his eyes are swimming. "No," he manages. "No, no."

"Okay, that's okay," Nate says. "Hey, Jo, can you take a breath for me? Not a big deep one. Just a nice, slow breath in. Here, like this." He inhales, really close to the phone, and Jo does his best to match his breathing to Nate's, to pull in a breath and let it out slowly.

He drops his head between his knees after a few minutes of quiet breathing. His chest feels less like his ribs are caving in, which has to be a good sign. "Better," he says, pulling in a deep, slow breath. "I'm… I can get to the door, I think."

"Mom called the front desk," Nate says. "Don't worry about it. Sid said someone should be there any minute now, okay? Just sit tight."

"Okay," Jo says, closing his eyes. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Nathan."

"You don't ever have to worry about that," Nate says quietly. "So don't, okay? I'm always here for you."

"Except when we play against you," Jo says, trying for a joke. "Not then."

"Well, I'm not gonna not score on you," Nate says, amused. "I love you, but that's over the line."

Jo manages a shaky smile. "I guess I can allow it."

There's a sudden firm knocking at the door. "Jonathan," someone calls. "I'm coming in, okay? Sidney sent me."

"Someone's here," Jo says, relief welling up in his chest. "Nathan, they're here."

"Good, babe, that's good," Nate says. "I'm glad."

Jo's door swings carefully open, revealing the slight form of Martin St. Louis. "Hi, Jonathan," he says in quiet, measured French. He takes a few steps forward, then frowns. "Gods above, what have they _done_ since I left?"

"Nothing," Jo says, still talking into the phone. "They haven't done anything, and it's all falling apart."

"Do you need me to stay on the phone?" Nate asks softly. "If you do, say the test word, and I'll cast the translation spell."

Jo shakes his head and looks down. "Martin St. Louis is here," he says. "I'm okay. Thank you."

"Love you," Nate says. "Let me know what's going on, okay? I can be down there in a few hours if you need me."

"Love you too," he says. "I'll let you know."

He hangs up and looks back at St. Louis. He's walked closer since Jo looked down, and he's reaching out. "You poor child," he mutters. "It's poisoning you."

Jo nods slightly. "I thought," he says, taking a deep breath. "I didn't know what was doing it. I had a charm that I thought would work, but it didn't."

"It did not," St. Louis agrees. His voice is very, very soft, but his eyes are hard as diamonds. "Can you walk? I know someone who can help."

"I can," Jo says, standing. "Should I call someone? Coach?"

St. Louis smiles, and it's as if the temperature in the room drops around them. "Oh, no. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

-0-

It hurts like he can't remember anything ever hurting before. Jo has no idea how much time is passing as the bad magic is pulled out of him; he just feels it burning as it passes from his fingertips, as St. Louis' doctor keeps a hand on his chest and murmurs.

"Sleep," the doctor says at some point. "We both need to rest before we go on."

"How much longer?" Jo asks. His voice is choked; he's been crying for god knows how long now.

"It's hard to say," the doctor says, shaking his head. "It's… I have seen worse, but not in a long time. Rest, and I'll be back later."

Jo falls into an exhausted sleep, and when he wakes up, Nate and St. Louis are talking quietly beside his bed. Jo clears his throat weakly, and they both look at him.

"Hey," Nate says, jumping up. He reaches for something and comes up with a cup, straw poking out of the top. "It's room-temperature, but that might be for the best right now."

Jo nods, so Nate helps him sit and take a few sips. When he puts the cup down, St. Louis steps up to the bed. "Dr. Hanzal says you've made a lot of progress," he says, keeping it in English for Nate's benefit. "You're about halfway done. He's going to break what's left into two sessions, though, so it doesn't overtax either one of you."

"How long?" Jo asks.

St. Louis hums a little. "It's been a little over six hours since I got you from the hotel. You've been asleep for about half of that time."

"I got here about an hour ago," Nate volunteers. "Mom's at the hotel. She wanted to come right over, but I told her to take a nap first. I almost had to carry her off the plane."

"You both came down?" Jo asks. "You—Nathan, you didn't have to do that."

"Of course we did," Nate says, taking Jo's hand and threading their fingers together. He doesn't say anything else, just squeezes Jo's hand and holds on.

Jo turns to look at St. Louis again. "You talked to Coach?"

St. Louis shakes his head. "I called Steve Yzerman."

Jo blinks. "You what?"

"He's the one who needs to fix whatever's gone wrong down there," St. Louis says. "I told him when I left that it could get bad, that giving the captaincy to Stamkos was all well and good, as long as he tethered the team magic to someone else." He shakes his head. "Obviously my advice was met with deaf ears. I told him to check on anyone else who joined the team after I left, too."

"Cally," Jo says. "And, shit. All the guys who were at camp."

"They'll be checked," St. Louis says. "Callahan is probably okay, though. He came right when I left, so the magic hadn't had the time to fall apart yet."

Jo closes his eyes. "When can I play again?"

"Jo," Nate says. There's a little bit of admonishment in his voice. "That's not really—"

"Of course it's important," Jo says. "Don't lie and say you wouldn't be asking, too."

"Not the first game of the series," St. Louis cuts in smoothly. "Possibly the second. We'll see what Dr. Hanzal says."

Jo nods a little. "I'd like to get this over with," he says. "Can you see if Dr. Hanzal is ready?"

"Sure," St. Louis says. "I'll be back shortly."

As soon as the door shuts behind him, Nate squeezes his hand again. "I just want you to be okay," he says quietly. "You scared the shit out of me, babe. I thought—you sounded like you were dying, Jo."

"Not yet," Jo says, opening his eyes. Nate looks awful, Jo realises, bags under his eyes and worry lines on his forehead. "You need to sleep."

"I needed to see you more," Nate says. "I might go back to the hotel now, though. I can't be in here while Dr. Hanzal is doing his thing, and you'll conk out after."

"Sleep," Jo repeats. "I'll be okay. You and Maman can come later."

Nate lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of Jo's. "Love you."

Jo wiggles his hand free and cups Nate's face, thumb stroking against his jaw. "Love you too."

Nate smiles at him. "I'll be back later," he promises. "Good luck."

Jo waves as he leaves the room, then closes his eyes and sighs again. He doesn't have time to gather his thoughts; Dr. Hanzal walks in not even a minute after Nate leaves. "Are we ready?" he asks.

"Let's get it over with," Jo says grimly.

It's no less harrowing the second time; Jo falls asleep almost as soon as Dr. Hanzal tells him to after the second session, and he wakes groggily for the third. He's not really aware of the third session as more than flashes of pain and gasps of air. He's never felt this awful in his life, and he hopes he never will again.

He wakes up disoriented, in a different room than the one he'd fallen asleep in. Mrs. MacKinnon is sitting next to the bed, reading something on her Kindle, but she glances up after a moment, smile spreading across her face. She puts the Kindle down and walks to the bedside, reaching out to smooth his hair away from his eyes. "Hi, sweetie. Dr. Hanzal says he got all of the bad magic out. You're okay now."

"Thank you," Jo whispers. "Water, please?"

She grabs a cup and helps him sit and drink for a moment before pulling the cup away. "Breathe," she advises. "You can have more, but you need to space it out. You don't want to shock your body and end up throwing up on top of everything else you've gone through today." Jo makes a face, and she laughs. "Exactly."

"Is Nate here?" he asks. His voice is hoarse, but his throat only hurts a little. "I told him to take a nap. He better be listening."

"Jo," Mrs. MacKinnon says, setting the cup down. "You've been pretty out of it since the procedure ended. It's been almost a full day since you told him that."

He blinks. "I missed a day?"

"Just one," she promises. "You're playing the Blackhawks in the Finals, since I know that was going to be your next question." She smiles at him, clearly amused. "But not for a few days, and Dr. Hanzal wants to see how quickly you recover before he gives the okay on you playing."

"The Blackhawks," Jo says, making a face. "I was hoping for the Ducks." There's just something about the Blackhawks that he doesn't know how to face, and he's not sure what it is.

"Well, the Ducks beat the hell out of them for you," Mrs. MacKinnon says. "Hopefully that helps."

"Hopefully," Jo agrees. "Is Nate here?"

"I sent him for food," Mrs. MacKinnon says. "It's not quite time for lunch, but he needed to go stretch his legs. He should be back—"

"Jo," Nate says from the doorway. He's holding a plastic bag and a tray with two coffee cups in it, and he looks like he's ready to drop it all on the floor and run over. "You're awake."

"Oh, look, he's back," Mrs. MacKinnon says brightly. "Nate, honey, bring the food over here. I'm starving."

Nate crosses the room quickly, dumping the food on the small table between the two chairs. He reaches out before he's even beside the bed, and Jo grabs his hand, squeezing it. "I'm okay," he says.

"Can I cast, like, every ward charm ever on you?" Nate asks, leaning over to brush a kiss against Jo's forehead. "I'll start at the beginning of the dictionary. It can't take that long to cast everything, right?"

Jo laughs a little. "Maybe we should see what Dr. Hanzal recommends," he says. "I don't want to overload myself and end up back here."

Nate shudders. "No."

"I'm going to take a walk," Mrs. MacKinnon says. "I'll let the nurses know you're awake, Jo. Dr. Hanzal will probably want to come talk to you."

Jo nods as she walks out. He's got some questions for Dr. Hanzal, too.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Nate murmurs. "They need to figure out whatever's hurting you down there. This can't happen again."

"They can't ignore it any longer," Jo says. "They'll fix it. They have to."

-0-

"It's our first priority after this series," Yzerman promises. He looks stressed, and Jo can't blame him. "We hired a team of practitioners in the meantime. They'll do daily checks for everyone, and we'll get everything straightened out over the summer."

"Okay," Jo says cautiously. "Is it safe?"

"It's as safe as we can make it right now," Yzerman says. "I'm sorry for letting it slide, Jon. We should have dealt with it a long time ago."

 _Yeah,_ Jo thinks. He just nods, though, and heads for the locker room. He's playing his first game back tonight, and he's going to do his best to just play.

A lot of the guys clap him on the back as he makes his way to his stall; his official media diagnosis was "magic spasm," which is really closer than Jo thought they'd get to the truth. He's guessing most of the guys don't know the full extent of what happened, but Bishop walks over to him and sits down. "I'm so sorry."

Jo blinks and starts pulling off his suit. "It's not your fault."

"It's at least a little bit my fault," Bishop objects. "You told me you were worried. You told me something was going to happen. I didn't listen."

It's true, but Jo just shrugs a little. "I think you were right, sort of," he offers. "I don't think anyone who was on the team when St. Louis left is in danger. There's probably less of a chance, anyway."

"Which didn't help you," Bishop says, clearly pained. "I'm really sorry, Jo."

"It's being taken care of now," Jo says. "It's not like you did it to be hurtful, Bish. You just didn't know."

"I should've," he mutters.

Jo rolls his eyes. "Yes, okay, it's entirely your fault. I blame you. You're terrible." He waits a beat. "Feel better?"

"You're kind of an asshole," Bishop says, but he's grinning now. "Fine, I get it. I'll listen better in the future, okay?"

"Okay," Jo says, grinning back. "Can I get dressed now? I want to get on the ice."

Bishop wanders away, so Jo finishes getting ready.

He can't describe how great the feeling of getting back on the ice is; he loves skating, and he likes this team, even if they can't figure out how to like him back just yet. They're working on it.

They don't win the Cup, which is more heartbreaking than Jo could ever have imagined. He's in and out of the lineup, bouncing between the ice and the box the whole series, and at the end, they have to watch as Toews and company lift the Cup over their heads. It's even more disheartening when they can hear the cheering from the locker room, peeling dejectedly out of their jerseys and pads and knowing that they're out of chances. There's no _we'll get them tomorrow_ at the end of the season.

Nate's waiting for him back at the hotel, and he opens his arms and tugs Jo into a hug without a word. Jo buries his head in Nate's neck, twisting his hands in Nate's shirt and just trying to breathe evenly. It's more work than it should be, maybe, but Nate just holds on and lets Jo cling to him for as long as he needs.

"This isn't on you," he says when Jo finally feels steady enough to pull away. "I didn't believe it when Gabe told me after we got knocked out, not right away. But this isn't on you. It's not on any one person, and next year you get to start fresh." He smiles a little. "And next year, all that toxic magic shit will be gone, and you'll really be able to hit your groove."

"I love you," Jo mumbles. "But—tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow you can tell me all of this, but right now—"

"Okay, okay, sorry," Nate says. "Sorry, babe. What do you need?"

"A shower," Jo says. He'd taken one at the rink, but it had been as quick as he could manage; listening to the Blackhawks celebrating, feeling the magic of the building cascading around him… he'd needed to get out as soon as possible.

"Okay," Nate says again. "Do you want me to shower with you, or do you want to do it by yourself?"

Jo loves Nate; he will until the day he dies, and he doesn't doubt it with any part of himself. One of the many, many reasons for that is because Nate always asks, never presumes, doesn't get upset if Jo needs different boundaries in different situations. He's willing to wait for an answer if that's what Jo needs, so he takes a second to breathe in and out slowly, figuring out what his brain's telling him right now.

"With me," he says. "Please."

"Okay," Nate says. "Let's get showering, then."

Nate turns the water on while Jo starts slowly peeling out of his suit. He lays it out carefully on the counter, piece by piece, and doesn't turn around until he's totally undressed. Nate's already in the shower, his clothes a trail to the stall, and Jo steps over them to walk in beside him.

It's nice, having Nate so close. It helps Jo relax, helps him wash off the game, the series, the season. Nate passes him the shampoo when he holds his hand out, and pushes his fingers soothingly through Jo's hair when he lets his head drop under the spray.

"You want the nice soap or the hotel stuff?" Nate asks. "The hotel one is in here, but I can grab the other one from my shaving kit if you want it."

"You don't have to," Jo says. "I'll just use the hotel stuff."

"I left my kit on the counter," Nate says. "Stay under the water. I'll be right back." He ducks out of the shower, and a moment later steps back in, Jo's soap in hand.

"Thank you," Jo says, taking it from him. "Someday I'll learn to pack it."

Nate laughs softly. "What use will I be then?"

"I love you for more than the fact that you remember my soap," Jo replies. "I think I'll keep you around."

"Oh, good," Nate replies, smiling as he hands over the washcloth.

They finish up their shower quietly; Jo trades places once he's clean, and Nate rinses off before turning the water off. Nate steps out and grabs their towels, handing one to Jo before starting to dry himself off. They walk out of the bathroom together, each getting into their pajamas, and then Nate opens his arms again.

"Next year," Nate promises. "Next year we're both gonna make the playoffs, babe. It might be a miracle if I make it all the way, but your team…" He shifts and tugs Jo towards the bed. "You guys could do it, Jo. You're more than good enough. And next year the magic crap will be fixed, and you'll be even better."

"I hope so," Jo says, crawling onto the bed and under the covers. He waits for Nate to climb in after him, then curls around him. Nate wraps his arm around Jo's shoulders and presses a kiss to his forehead.

"Love you," Nate says. His thumb is brushing comfortingly back and forth across Jo's shoulder.

"Love you too," Jo mumbles as he falls asleep.

-0-

Having a shorter off-season is only worth it if you win the Cup, Jo decides in late August, staring down a training camp that's coming much, much sooner than he'd like it to do. His off-season had been good; he's gotten a lot of training in, worked on some ways to dispel bad magic himself if he runs into a little bit of it, and spent a lot of time with Nate. He's happy as he heads back to Tampa, but he's not as well-rested as he'd like.

He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the locker room on the first day of camp.

"I know," Bishop says heavily from his stall. "I already met with Coach about it."

"I can't," Jo says, almost choking on the words. The team's magic is somehow worse than it had been at the end of the season. It's twisted, dripping from the walls, and even some of the veteran guys seem uncomfortable in the room now. "I can't do this, Bish. Not again. Not after…"

Cally comes over and grabs Jo's shoulder. "We're not gonna let that happen again. We _won't_ , Jon."

"How?" Jo chokes out. "They were going to fix it!"

"They will," Bishop says soothingly. "They'll fix it."

"Hey," Stamkos says gently, right next to Jo. He hasn't even noticed him walking up. "Hey, Jon, c'mon." He gently takes Jo's elbow and steers him out of the room, walking until they're in one of the workout rooms instead. He leads him to one of the lifting benches and sits, waiting until Jo does the same.

"So you know I can't see any of it," Stammer says. Jo nods. "But I can tell something's… off. Something's weird. And you've been telling us that all along." He sighs. "I reached out to Marty a couple of weeks ago and asked him what I should do if things weren't fixed."

"Did he have a solution?" Jo asks.

Stamkos looks wry. "It was a lot of ranting about Yzerman, mostly. I have no idea how much of it was deserved." He sighs. "But he told me specifically to tell you that if you ran into any trouble, you should call him."

"Call him," Jo repeats.

"Yeah," Stamkos confirms. "I'll text you his contact info. I think you made an impression." He smiles a little.

"I had a panic attack on him in New York," Jo says, shrugging. "And according to Dr. Hanzal, I was a couple days short of my magical sickness attacking the rest of me, and it wouldn't have been pretty."

The smile drops off of Stamkos' face. "I'm really sorry, Jon. I wish I could just fix it." He sighs, frustrated. "It doesn't usually bother me, you know? Being non-magical." He waves his hand around. "But if I had magic in me, then none of this would have happened. Everything would have just been status quo when Marty left, and you would've been fine when you got here."

Stress isn't magical; Jo can't see it like he can the warped mess of what's supposed to be his team's magic. He'd swear he can see it now in the set of Stamkos' shoulders, though, tired and heavy before the season even starts. "It's not your fault," he ventures. "I mean, thanks, but you can't help being non-magical any more than I can being Québécois." Which is just another part of why everything's so fucked.

"Still," Stamkos says. "I mean, I guess if wishing really hard that things were different worked, then we'd have the Cup, eh?"

Jo laughs. "We would," he agrees. He takes a deep breath. "So we'll just… be careful. I'll be more vigilant, and we'll keep on management to fix it?"

"I think that's the plan," Stamkos confirms. "Until something better comes along."

"Let's hope that's soon," Jo mutters, standing up and stretching a little. "Okay. Let's get on the ice."

Nate isn't any happier than Jo is when they Skype later, but there's nothing either of them can actually do; they make a habit out of meditating together as often as they can, and it helps Jo keep on top of his own magical situation. He's glad that he'd talked Dr. Katz into teaching him how to rid himself of bad magic spots, because something sticks to him every few days. It's exhausting, taking care of it himself, but it's better than having to drag himself to Dr. Hu twice a week.

"Any news?" Nate asks as the season begins.

Jo shrugs. "I wish. There have been a few people in to look at it, but nothing has changed."

"This is bullshit," Nate sighs. Jo agrees, but he just gives Nate a tired smile.

They play; they play and they play, and Jo keeps asking for updates, makes his presence known, shares with the trainers and the coaches every time he has to pluck bad magic out of himself. He knows he's not terribly popular in the higher ranks of management; he's a nuisance, and nobody likes a player who can't keep his mouth shut. Jo knows his own safety is at stake, though, and he's sure that the safety of the other guys in the room is less and less sure as time goes on.

"I don't know what to do," he sighs to Bishop one night in mid-December. "Can I file something with the NHLPA? Can my agent do anything?"

"Maybe," Bishop says. "If you want to rock the boat that much, you can try, but I don't know what they can do, honestly. Probably something, but I don't know what."

"I might," Jo says, dropping his head back in his stall. He's gotten good at staring through the bad magic. He's had to.

Jo makes a call to his agent, who tells him he'll look into filing something with the NHLPA in the new year; trying to get anything new done before the holidays would be a waste of time and energy and Jo knows it, but he can't help the frustrated feeling in his chest.

"I got an email," Jo says on Skype, a few days after Christmas. "Yzerman wants to meet with me, didn't say what it's about."

"Holy shit, maybe they're finally getting their heads out of their asses," Nate says. "A Christmas miracle."

Jo laughs. "Maybe. I guess we'll see, eh?"

"Call me," Nate says. "Love you."

"Love you," Jo says. "I will."

He dresses nicely but not in game-day attire on New Year's Eve; he's not sure what the proper dress code is for a meeting with the GM, but he figures better nice than sloppy. He doesn't have to wait long, unsurprisingly. Nobody else is waiting on New Year's Eve.

"Jon," Yzerman says when Jo walks in. "Take a seat, son."

Jo's skin prickles immediately. "Mr. Yzerman," he says, trying not to sound as wary as he feels as he sits.

Yzerman sighs and leans back. "Look, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm not gonna beat around the bush. We think you could use some time playing with the guys up in Syracuse, so we're reassigning you as of two days from now."

Jo's blood runs cold. "I'm being sent down?"

"Just for a bit," Yzerman says. "Things have been rough here for you this season—"

"Is this about my play or about the magic?" Jo interrupts harshly. "Is this an on-ice decision, or is this because I won't shut up about the poison in the locker room?"

Yzerman regards him calmly. "There's no poison in the locker room that some player movement won't help."

"You are joking," Jo says, aghast. "It's going to snap. It's going to _kill_ someone, and you're saying, what, I'm being dramatic?"

"You're being reassigned," Yzerman says again, as if Jo's not saying anything of value. He looks at his computer screen. "You have a game in two days. Pack a bag; you're flying out tomorrow."

Jo sits for a moment, speechless, before standing and walking jerkily out of the office. He doesn't remember walking out of the building or getting into his car, but once he's there, he blinks and takes a ragged breath. He pulls out his phone and dials Nate's number.

"How'd it go?" Nate asks when he picks up.

Jo squeezes his eyes shut. "Aubergine," he chokes out.

-0-

Syracuse—

There's nothing objectively wrong with being in Syracuse. Jo plays a little robotically and he knows it, but he can't get past this being punishment for not keeping his head down and just going along with the lack of response from management. He wonders if they heard about him talking to his agent, figured out that he was going to file a grievance against them, and put him where he could make less of a fuss.

Jo isn't going to let them keep him quiet. If they won't do anything, well, he's going to make noise where someone will hear him.

"You can't," his agent tells him tiredly. Allan isn't Jo's favorite person, but he's usually pretty good at his job. "It's a team grievance, Jo. It would be like going to the media and telling them about every bad habit each one of your teammates has. You can technically do it, but you'll be a pariah in every locker room for the rest of your life. You do this, teams will think two, three, four times before they sign you in the future."

"I can't do nothing," Jo protests.

Allan sighs a little. "We can ask for a trade, make it public," he says. "They don't have to do anything with a trade request, though, and it could backfire. People could look at it as you throwing a fit about being sent to Syracuse and nothing more than that, since we can't disclose all the details."

Jo closes his eyes. "Give me a day to think about it," he says.

"Of course," Allan replies. "I'm here for you, Jo, not the other way around. Give me a call when you make up your mind."

He talks to Nate; he talks to Mrs. MacKinnon. He calls his own parents and has a stilted conversation with them about the whole situation. He debates calling St. Louis or Ovechkin; this might fall under "call me if you need to," but it might not. In the end, he decides not to bother, and he calls Allan back. "Do it," he says. "Put the trade request out there."

Allan does, and he was at least partially right; there's a lot of quiet grumbling about how he's a child throwing a tantrum, and there's nothing he can do about it except put his head down and play.

Except—

"Allan," he says. They're in Toronto, getting ready to play the Marlies. "What if I refused to report?"

Allan is quiet for a long, long time. "I don't know if that's in your best interests," he says finally. "That could—that could cause a lot of problems, Jo."

"It would make a point," Jo says, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

"It would," Allan agrees. "As your agent, I'm recommending you just keep playing. It'll be better for your chances in the long run." He hesitates a little. "As someone who knows the situation… it might make your point more clearly to the NHLPA."

Jo slumps down. "So I shouldn't do it, except I should do it," he mumbles.

"It's your choice," Allan says firmly. "I'm just trying to give you as much information as I can about that choice, and whatever you do, I'm still your agent. We'll get through this."

"Okay," Jo says. Everything in his chest feels tight, and he can almost feels his magic throbbing in his veins. "Okay. I'm just going to… catch a flight home. I'll call you."

Allan sighs. "Good luck."

Jo's parents are frankly bewildered by his decision; they welcome him home, but it's with a lot of heavy looks and promises that they'll talk it out soon. Jo knows it's at least partially his fault; he loves his parents, he truly does, but he's not close to them anymore. They're out of the loop on a lot of the details from the past two years. He knows why he pulled away, and the mark on his hand is glimmering now that he's back in Québéc; if they can't accept that Nate's his, Nate's his family, then they can't have the rest of him.

He's still skating; he goes to the rink every day and runs drills, pushes himself as far as he thinks he should and then a little further still. He keeps up with his meditation even though he's away from the Bolts' locker room, and it's not hard to see how his magic flourishes here, how it strengthens and pulses like it's supposed to. It's giving him hazy, half-formed ideas about what he could do back in Tampa, but he pushes those firmly away for now.

It comes to a head in the beginning of March, and frankly, he's surprised it took that long. "We need to talk about this," Mama says firmly, and Papa nods behind her. "If you're not going to play hockey—"

"I'm going to play hockey," he cuts in. "I'm just not right now."

Mama nods, then hesitates. "Is it… something to do with your boy?"

Jo reels a little; they don't talk about Nate. They haven't since the fight, since Jo came home with a mark on his hand and Nate as _his_. "No," he says.

"It's not that we don't like him," Papa sighs. He rubs at his forehead a little, and Jo suddenly wonders when his parents got _old_. "It's just—you were barely more than a child. That's not the kind of magic you should be doing at that age."

"Nathan and I are fine," Jo says stiffly. "This has nothing to do with that." He doesn't mention how Nate flew to New York for him last year, or how Mrs. MacKinnon is listed as "other family" on all of his paperwork with the Bolts. He hadn't meant to leave his parents behind, but needs must.

"If something had happened," Mama says quietly. She draws the symbol on Jo's hand in the air, and Jo watches it, a little transfixed despite himself. "This is hard to break the day after it's cast, and the longer it stays, the more intertwined you become." She sighs. "If you'd had a fight, if you'd grown apart… it would have been very difficult for both of you."

"And you didn't trust that I knew that?" Jo says, incredulous.

"We have both been that age," Papa corrects, hint of a smile on his lips. "I had a friend when I was fifteen, sixteen. I thought he'd be my family forever, but we grew up, grew apart. I can't imagine being bound to him now."

Jo looks him right in the eye. "Nathan is not my _friend_ ," he says, keeping his voice even through strength of will. "He never has been, and he never will be."

Mama is quiet for a moment. "We've come to realise that," she finally says. "We made a mistake, Jonathan, and it's one I'm not sure how to apologise for." She smiles a little. "Gods only know how much Nathan's mother has let us know how wrong we've been."

"We are sorry," Papa adds. "We'd like to help with whatever's going on. I understand that you don't completely trust us right now, but we'd like to work on changing that."

"How?" Jo asks.

"Well, if you tell us what's actually behind all of this," Mama says gently, "maybe we can help."

Jo takes a few deep, even breaths. He wants to, is the thing, and he does trust his parents enough to know that _they_ know not to publicize anything he might say. "Okay," he says, and then he lays it all out, right from the beginning.

They're silent throughout, and it stretches on after he finishes. He bends his wrist, pulling up a bit of his magic and letting it run over his skin, watching as the bolts chase themselves across the mark on the back of his hand.

Finally, Mama nods. "Well," she says firmly, calling up some of her own magic and letting it play between her hands, liquid gold that's always been mesmerising to watch. "We have some work to do."

-0-

Jo goes back to Syracuse with a plan, and he's determined to do whatever it takes to set it into motion. He makes all the right noises about being apologetic, about how all he wants to do is play. He keeps his head down, and he thinks he might be getting closer, working his way back into the Bolts' good graces again. Hopefully he can get back there soon, before something happens.

Almost predictably, of course, something _happens_.

"He's gonna be okay," Bishop says when Jo calls him, panicking. "It's… it's not great, but he's gonna be okay."

"It snapped," Jo says, dead certain. Stamkos is a young, healthy guy. It's not unheard of for hockey players to get blood clots; the amount of flying they have to do makes it a possibility. It's not likely, though.

Bishop gives him a long, tired sigh. "It snapped."

"What are they doing?" Jo asks. He flexes his fingers and pushes his magic to the tips of them, then draws it back in. "Tell me they're doing _something_."

"There are practitioners," Bishop says. "They're all… I don't know, kind of clueless?" He laughs bitterly. "God, when they sent you down, I thought about going to tear a strip off Yzerman's ass. I should've."

"I don't think it would have helped," Jo says. It's one of the things Papa had pointed out after Jo spilled everything; if the team magic is warped to the point where it's lashing out, there's reason to think it might be keeping management from seeing how bad things have gotten. "Is there any news yet? Will Stammer be back for the playoffs?"

"The end of them, if we're lucky," Bishop says grimly. "Silver linings and everything, man, you might want to pack your shit up. Yzerman might not be your biggest fan, but we probably need you."

Jo glances over to where his bag is sitting, mostly full already. "I'll do that," he promises.

Sure enough, it doesn't take long; Jo gets word that he's being flown in to join the second-to-last game of the regular season. It's a few days away, so Jo steels himself and calmly tells Yzerman to fly him from Tampa instead of Syracuse.

"You're in Syracuse," Yzerman says, more like he's questioning it than telling Jo what he knows to be fact.

"I won't be here for long," Jo says. "I have something I need to take care of before I fly to New Jersey, though."

Yzerman sighs. "Whatever it is—"

"Fly me from Tampa," Jo repeats. "I'll get myself there. I only need a day."

There's no real reason for Yzerman to say no, except if he's been so blinded to what's going on with the team's magic; honestly, Jo wouldn't be shocked if Yzerman put his foot down for that exact reason. He doesn't like his options if that happens, but he's got a backup plan. "Fine," Yzerman finally relents, and Jo silently pumps his fist. "You're flying out of Tampa in two days' time."

"Thank you," Jo says, mind already racing with what he has to do. "I'll see you in New Jersey."

His next call is to St. Louis; it goes to voicemail, so he gives a very brief outline of what he's going to do, then calls Ovi.

Ovi is silent for a moment when Jo finishes. "This not what I meant when I said punch holes," he finally says. "Don't be idiot, Jo."

"Do you have a better idea?" Jo asks. Part of him is hoping Ovi has some brilliant solution.

Ovi sighs heavily. "No, but I don't like this one," he says clearly. "This could be bad. Could be worse than last time."

"I don't have much of a choice," Jo points out. "Nobody's doing anything."

Ovi sighs again. "Call me if you need," he says. "Bad timing, but I will fly down if you in over your big dumb head."

"Thanks," Jo says gratefully. "I'll let you know."

His last call is to Nate, and he takes a deep breath before calling. "Hey," he says when Nate answers. "I'm being called back up."

"Be careful," Nate says instantly. "I mean, I'm happy for you, but…"

Jo closes his eyes. "I'm going to do something you won't like."

"What?" Nate asks. There's a shuffling sound. "Jo, babe, don't do anything drastic."

"This whole season has been pretty drastic," Jo points out. "It took Stammer out, Nathan. I can't just do nothing."

"It's not on you," Nate says. He sounds almost pleading. "You don't have to be the one to fix this."

Jo thinks about the spells his mother had made him commit to memory, the way Papa's hands had moved around the magic as he slowed it down enough for Jo to see. "I think I might be the only one who can," he says quietly. Everyone else is too close, or too distracted. "I'll be okay."

"I can fly out there in a few days," Nate says. "I'm done for the season with this fucking knee thing. Give me a few days to get everything together and I'll help you with it."

"I have to do it tomorrow," Jo says. "Look, I can do this, okay? I can fix it." He puts as much confidence in his voice as he can.

Nate makes a helpless sound. "I just don't—I love you, Jo. If you get hurt again…"

"I'll be okay," he repeats. He's not certain, not completely sure, but he can't let on to that. "I have Ovi on speed dial. If I need him, he'll fly in."

"Okay," Nate says, taking a deep breath. "Okay, Jo, I… you'll be okay. I love you, and I'll see you soon, okay? Playoffs."

"I love you," Jo says, "I'll see you for playoffs."

They hang up, and Jo takes a long, slow breath before nodding. He's got a flight to catch.

-0-

It's always really uncomfortable to be the only one in an arena, whether it's something small and local, or a barn in the Q or, Jo can now confirm, Amelie on an off day. He's expecting it, but it still doesn't stop a chill from racing down his back. He makes his way slowly to the locker room, taking a deep breath before slipping inside.

He'd done his best to prepare himself for what he might face, but he has no idea how he was supposed to brace for this. With Stamkos out, the tethers that had been holding the magic at its straining edges have snapped, and the magic in the room is _everywhere_. It's pulsing, almost, and Jo shudders as his magic brushes against it. It's never felt this wrong before, and that's saying something.

"Okay," he mutters. He makes his way around the room to Stamkos' stall and starts pulling off his clothing. He folds it and puts it neatly in the stall, stopping when he's down to his boxers and tee shirt. He shivers, partially from the cold and partially because he's sort of freaked out by what he's about to do.

He takes a centering breath and turns around, facing the room. Jo squares his shoulders and takes slow, measured steps until he's standing in the center of the logo on the floor, and then he sits.

Really, Jo probably owes Nate a lot for making meditation easier for him; he can't imagine being able to sink into his magic like he can now when he'd first shown up in Tampa. It's a matter of routine by this point, though, so he closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath, and dives into his own magic.

There's no trace of Tampa when he looks; of course, now that he's here to do something about it, the bad magic is staying away from him. Jo calls his magic up, keeps pulling and pulling and pulling at it until it races all over him, across his back and his chest and down his legs. He holds it all close but lets it build, murmuring under his breath to coax the bad magic towards him, moving his hands as his father had but quickly, efficiently.

Jo shudders when Tampa's magic reaches out for him, latching onto the strong, healthy magic he's radiating. He swallows it down, though, securing his lightning to the bad magic, pulling it in and shoving it into the core of his own magic. He waits until it's surrounded and then he keeps going, pushing his own magic out and pulling the bad magic in. It's slow, tiring work, but he pushes through until he's gotten every last scrap of spellwork, every wisp of magic in the locker room.

He can feel all of the bad magic roiling inside him; he grits his teeth and thinks of the secondary set of spells, the ones that are about purification and order, about togetherness and anchors and camaraderie. He lets the bad magic back out slowly, casting as he goes, and the magic that flows back out of him is deep and rich and heavy. It flows to the corners of the locker room and settles in, feeling _right_ like this locker room never has before.

He can feel his own magic dwindling; he'd come back from Québéc as magically strong as he could manage, but there's only so much space for reserves, and he can tell he's reaching the ends of his power. He's almost finished, though; he's almost _fixed_ it, and the thought is enough to power him through.

The last of the team's magic slips through his spellwork, clean and fresh and so, so blue, and Jo slumps forward, exhausted. He lets himself rest for a moment, gathering every last bit of strength he has, and then he pushes himself to his knees before climbing unsteadily to his feet. He needs to cast his anchors; he needs to make sure this won't—can't—happen again.

Now that the team magic is whole again, now that it's as it should be, it's drawing towards Stamkos' stall. He's captain; it's the natural place for it to gather, where it feels it should be anchored. That's what brought this all to bear in the first place, though, so Jo gently directs it around, distributing it evenly in every stall, in every nameplate. He binds it in place with one last exhausted push and looks around.

It's done.

Jo takes a few stumbling steps forward, catches himself in someone's stall, and manages to drop to the bench. He leans back and closes his eyes. Just a few minutes, he thinks. Just until he can get to his feet again.

He comes to at some point later to someone shouting his name. It echoes strangely, bouncing around, and Jo wonders why until he realises it's a locating spell, projected so it can be heard anywhere in the caster's range and it can pick up anything it hears.

"Locker room," he says. His voice sounds fuzzy, sort of distant, and he blinks. "I'm in the home locker room."

A moment later the door slams open and Ovi runs in, somehow looking like he'd managed to roll out of bed and run over from Washington. He sees Jo immediately and hurries to his side, dropping down to hold a hand over Jo's heart and murmur something in Russian. He pulls his hand back a moment later, sighing in evident relief.

"I tell you, don't be idiot," Ovi huffs. "This _being idiot_ , Jo, gods above."

"But I fixed it," Jo says, waving his hand around. "I fixed it, Ovi." A thought occurs to him, and he starts laughing. "And I didn't punch any holes. I mended them all."

" _Idiot_ ," Ovi says again, but he's smiling a little too. "You call your boyfriend, tell him you didn't fry all your brains out doing stupid magic with no supervision." He shoves his phone at Jo.

Jo takes the phone. "I didn't know you and Nate knew each other," he says as he dials.

Ovi rolls his eyes. "Sid," is his explanation, and, well. Nate would absolutely call Sid, and Jo's not shocked that Sid and Ovi have traded numbers.

"Is he okay?" Nate asks instead of saying hello.

"I told you I'd be okay," Jo says, smiling a little when Nate lets out a relieved sigh. "I did it, Nathan. I fixed it."

-0-

Jo doesn't realise anything's different about himself until he walks into the visitors' locker room in New Jersey.

" _Whoa_ ," Palat says as soon as he sees Jo. It makes everyone else turn, too, and Jo flushes a little, self-conscious.

"What?" he asks defensively, heading for his stall. 

"Dude," Cally says, his eyes wide. "What the hell, they send you to Syracuse and you decide that embodying that stupid _Ride the Lightning_ slogan is the quickest way back?"

Jo frowns, looking around. "What the hell are you guys talking about?"

"Uh," Bishop says, clearing his throat a little. "Did you… do something? With your magic?"

It's not like he'd been planning on keeping it a secret; it's just that Jo figured he'd tell the guys later. The season is over after their next game, and both of them are on the road. There was no real need to tell them beforehand, except that when Jo looks down at his hands, there's bright blue lightning bolts racing around them.

"So, uh," Jo says, clearing his throat. He drops his bag in his stall. "I fixed it."

"You," Bishop says, trailing off. "You fixed it? Fixed what?"

Jo raises an eyebrow at him. "What do you think?"

"You can't mean," Bishop starts, but he cuts himself off when Jo holds both hands out. He closes his eyes; it doesn't take much for him to find the bolt of the team's magic that he'd anchored to himself, and it takes even less to bring it to the surface.

When he opens his eyes, every single person in the locker room is staring at him. Jo pushes the magic gently out into the room, watching as it makes its way to each player. It touches Johnson first, a gentle tap against his calf, and Jo can feel the moment Johnson's bolt anchors to him. Johnson's eyes widen and his mouth drops open a little, and he suddenly looks like a weight he didn't know he was carrying has been lifted off his shoulders.

"Oh my god, you _fixed_ it," he says, tone awed. "How the fuck?"

The magic is still moving, making its way around the room; the guys are all having similar reactions, surprise and awe and more than a little gratefulness. Jo holds his breath a little as it reaches Bishop, who reaches out to sink his hand into the magic as it approaches him.

"Holy shit," he breathes. He bows his head, and Jo feels it like a crackle down his spine, the way the anchor takes to Bishop. Everything snaps into being _right_ , just like that, and Jo tugs on the magic until it circles back and sinks into his hand. "Holy shit, kid." Bishop throws his head back and laughs, long and loud, and Jo grins.

"Now that we don't have to worry about that anymore," Jo says, "how about we go win a hockey game?"

-0-

The playoffs aren't easy; it would be ridiculous to say they were, and worse to believe it. It's hard, and Jo's playing a much larger role this time, between things finally being right with the team and Stamkos still recovering in Tampa. Each win feels hard-fought, which is exactly how it should be; Jo thrives on the feeling, the fight, and the wins.

Nate flies into Tampa the day Jo flies back from Detroit; they only need one more to close out the series, and Jo's confident they can do it. It's good to have Nate there with him, too, and from the way Nate smiles and hugs him for a solid minute, Jo figures he feels the same way.

"You did it," Nate breathes, looking at him. "And you're okay."

"Always okay," Jo promises, leaning in to peck Nate on the lips. He smiles, looking a little surprised, and Jo smiles back at him. "I've got you in my corner. How could I be anything but okay?"

"I mean, the past couple of years kinda show how," Nate says, starting to frown a little.

"No," Jo says firmly. "Nathan, you helped me more than I can even imagine in the past couple of years. I don't know what I would do without you."

Nate grabs Jo's hand and holds it over his heart, and Jo spreads his fingers out so he can feel the steady _thump thump thump_ beneath his palm. "Never gonna happen," he promises. "I love you."

"I love you too," Jo says as he leans in to slide his arms around Nate's waist, swaying them together a little. "Even if I did remember to pack my own soap this time."

Nate laughs as he wraps Jo in his arms, and Jo closes his eyes and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> -THE ONLY BOLT I ACTUALLY LIKE IS JONATHAN DROUIN HOW DID I END UP HERE
> 
> -i fudged a detail in the 2015-16 season in re jo's trade request, but otherwise that's pretty much how his career has gone. poor jo.
> 
> -yes, sometimes people call him jo and other times jon; it seems that the more casually he knows someone, the more likely they are to call him jon instead of jo. my placement of each name was chosen carefully.
> 
> -is this my way of commenting on how the NHL treats players who aren't of the anglo north american mold? MAYBE IT'S PARTIALLY THAT.
> 
> -i gave jo's agent more credit than i personally think he deserves in this, but. eh. WHO KNOWS, really. (i have a lot of feelings about this boy and how things have gone for him.)
> 
> -i thiiiiiink there's one more story in this series before i write the finale? yeah. let's go with that. i'm going on vacation soon, though, and then i'm moving, so who knows when that will be up.
> 
> -[follow me on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) for hockey things, occasional rambling about how much moving cross-country is a pain in the ass, and hopefully soon a lot less yelling about the US election cycle.


End file.
